Making Friendship with Feminist Books
As a young teen and adult, my relationship with books was almost sexual. There was an endless search – for something, not quite sure what. In pre-liberalisation India, in a pre-internet world, the search for a name for my feelings, the search for a rendition of those feelings was urgent and amorphous. At New Book Land, the circular bookshop in Janpath, I remember buying for ten rupees a book of short stories by an Egyptian writer, Ahdaf Soueif, and feeling thrilled by what I read. In the British Council library I borrowed two books, because one’s cover entranced me, full of fairy tale circus images, and the other’s name delighted me – Sexing The Cherry and Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit.
Walking on the street in New York, I bought for one dollar a copy of Bell Hooks’ Black Looks. I had no...